


Primary

by MirrorMystic



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Characterization through kisses, Color Motifs, F/F, Fluff, OT3, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: Red, yellow, blue and white. Four colors, and four seasons of Faye’s wandering heart.





	Primary

**Author's Note:**

> A look at Faye's different loves and different lovers, from commitment, passion, intimacy, and equilibrium. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the read. ^^

~*~  
  
_I. Blue + Yellow_  
  
It’s been years since the Dragonfall. The gods are dead, but life goes on.  
  
The sun sets over idyllic, rolling fields. It’s summertime in Valentia, and the land has regained much of its luster. There’s lush, verdant green as far as the eye can see. Granted, this is Rigel, and even in the summer the grass has to shake off a layer of frost every morning. But for now, at least, the world blazes with light and color, gleaming beneath the setting sun.  
  
For Silque, at least, it’s a gratifying sight, seeing the land in bloom. The gods’ absence is palpable, even on Valentia’s brightest days. But as the evening comes to a close, Silque blows out a satisfied sigh, gazing out over the hills and tucking a stray lock of hair beneath her headdress.  
  
“Mila provides,” Silque murmurs.  
  
“No,” Faye says casually, smiling. “I’m pretty sure that was all you.”  
  
Silque smiles, and chidingly pats Faye’s hand.  
  
“Sorry,” Silque says. “It’s a habit.”  
  
Mila is gone, but Silque’s healing power hasn’t faded. Faye argues that this means Silque has been healing the sick under her own power this entire time; Silque, that Mila isn’t truly gone.  The two have playfully debated this point dozens of times before; one gets the impression the only reason they haven’t dropped it is that they simply like hearing each other speak.  
  
Habit has come to define Silque’s life in the years after the war. On a pilgrimage across Valentia, with each day bringing new sights and new troubles, there’s comfort in routine.  
  
It’s habit that leads her and Faye to the tavern, on every night they’re fortunate enough to have a roof over their heads and not just a tent. It’s habit that has Faye propping herself against Silque’s shoulder when she gets just a smidge too deep in her cups. It’s habit that has them watching the sunset, simply enjoying the warmth of each other’s company, and it’s habit that has Silque narrowly avoid Faye punching her arm in excitement when she sees their food arrive.  
  
Silque smiles. It’s the little things, sometimes-- like how, after more than a year on the road together, Faye’s long outgrown her self-consciousness of eating ‘like a lady’ in Silque’s company. How Rigelian food is always simply, hearty fare made to fight off the cold. Or how at least some of Faye’s enthusiasm is coming from the fact that their stew was made from the rabbits she’d caught herself.  
  
Silque may have spent her formative years in a monastery, but she knows better than to weigh down her pack with silver and make herself a target for bandits. In Zofia, her status as a Cleric of Mila earned her deference and hospitality wherever they went. Up north, Faye’s shortbow and snares made sure they never went hungry, whether in town or in the wild.  
  
They eat together, moving with the comfort and ease of a pair who’d shared far more than meals over the past year of traveling. Faye wolfs down her food-- she’d always had a bigger appetite than Silque, and finishing her food quickly just means she’s free to talk-- and Silque watches her with a warmth and fondness that’s grown, bit by bit, with every day they’ve spent journeying together.  
  
Outside, the sun dips below the trees, and evening melts into night. Again, they settle into old habits-- Faye, bemoaning her impulse control after having too much food and far too much ale, clinging to Silque’s arm as Silque helps her stagger up the steps to their room.  
  
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Faye drawls, halfway up the steps.  
  
“And you’ve had a few too many,” Silque teases, pulling Faye along.  
  
“I mean it,” Faye insists. Silque props her wobbly frame against the wall while she pulls their room key from a pouch at her belt. “You can heal people. Save lives. I can’t do _anything_ .”  
  
“Are you so sure?” Silque smiles. The lock clicks open, and she ushers Faye inside. “You can cook. You can ride a horse. You can hunt, trap, skin, sew. Really, Faye, is there anything you _can’t_ do?”  
  
“I can’t stand up straight, for one thing,” Faye giggles. Silque just shakes her head.  
  
They go through their nightly routine in a warm, comfortable quiet. Faye rifles through her pack, haphazardly tossing clothes onto her bed, searching for her nightgown. Silque, meanwhile, carefully folds her habit and sets it aside.  
  
Some habits, Silque just can’t shake-- least of all the white habit, trimmed in violet, that had served her ever since the day she set out from Novis on her first, short-lived pilgrimage, in the months before the Dragonfall. Silque pulls off her headdress and sets it on top of her bundled habit, before reaching into her pack and retrieving another relic of days long past.  
  
Silque takes the little icon of Mila, the goddess’ serene visage captured in stone, and sets it on the windowsill. She kneels, her hands clasped in prayer, as moonlight falls across her form and casts Mila’s shadow across her face.  
  
A cynic might say that, in Mila’s absence, beseeching her for counsel or providence was a task done in vain. But gratitude? Gratitude is never wasted.  
  
Silque bows her head, and thanks Mila for her bounty-- for her health, the health of the land, the health of those she takes under her care, the sick, the hungry, the lonely and the lost. She thanks Mila for the remnants of healing power that linger in her grasp, the will that carries her forward, the power to ease the world’s hurts, one ailing soul at a time.  
  
Most of all, she thanks Mila for her companion on the road-- the one she’s certain she couldn’t have done this journey without.  
  
Silque rises, turns, and meets Faye’s watchful eyes.  
  
Silque’s evening prayer is just part of their routine, as is Faye watching her in a thoughtful quiet. No matter how rowdy Faye gets at dinner, she always grows quiet, late at night. In the dark, old fears, old worries, loom like shadows across the walls, stretched thin by time and healing, but lingering still.  
  
This brief, nightly melancholy is merely habit at this point-- as is the sight of Faye, beckoning her out of those thoughts with a warm bed and open arms.  
  
Silque obliges with a grateful smile, slipping under the covers and into Faye’s embrace. There was a time, early in their journey together, when they would have balked and blushed at the thought of sharing a bed. But it gets cold in Rigel, even in the summer, and Faye is warmer than any hearth; warmer, Silque dares to say, than the carved visage of Mila still watching from the windowsill.  
  
Faye nuzzles into Silque’s chest, her arms clinging tight around Silque’s neck. Silque lets out a blissful sigh, holding Faye close. She leans in, presses her lips to Faye’s scalp, her forehead, the tip of her nose. Each kiss is a benediction. Each one, a habit.  
  
Then Faye leans up and captures Silque’s lips in a soft, tender, lingering kiss that just makes the whole world seem to melt away.  
  
Kissing Faye, like this, isn’t a habit. Not yet.  
  
But it’s something Silque just can’t imagine living without.  
  
~*~  
  
_II. Yellow + Red_  
  
There’s just something about Celica.  
  
Faye isn’t sure what to call it. Her charm, her allure, her charisma. Celica had charisma befitting a queen; she carried herself with an effortless elegance and grace, and her words could move the hearts of men. But there was something else about her, something that drew Faye to her like a moth to a flame.  
  
Silque had a theory: that because Celica was both queen of Zofia and a high priestess of Mila, she was blessed with the Mother’s bounty. Mother Mila was, after all, the goddess of life, love, and… other things. Perhaps Celica, foremost of her faithful, embodied the same.  
  
It’s a sound theory, and Faye really should know better by now than to argue theology with Silque, but Faye pushes the thought away. Lying breathless in a luxurious bedchamber in Castle Zofia is no time to be thinking of Silque--  
  
\--especially when it’s _Celica’s_ sweat cooling on the sheets.  
  
Faye stirs, and wakes to Celica doing up the buttons on her doublet by frail candlelight. Music and revelry drift up through the open window, carried on the brisk autumn breeze. Goosebumps prickle across Faye’s bare shoulders, and she shivers, clutching her blanket tighter across her chest.  
  
“...You’re not staying.”  
  
Celica goes still in front of the vanity, her shoulders sagging. They’ve had this conversation so many times, Celica doesn’t even have to say a word-- her sigh says it all.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Celica says, resigned. “There’s still work to do.”  
  
It hurts. Even after hearing it, time and time again. Watching Celica leave-- or, worse, just waking up to find her gone-- hurts, every time, the wound fresh and raw just like the first morning.  
  
Faye grits her teeth, balling the blanket in her fist.  
  
“You’re ashamed of me,” she blurts out, without any real basis beyond the hope her words can pin Celica in place, stop her from leaving, make her stay, if only to fight. “I’m just your dirty little secret, aren’t I? I’m nothing but a scandal to you!”  
  
Celica sighs, and shakes her head. She’s not going to play her game. “...I’ve never said that, Faye, and you know it.”  
  
Faye pouts like a child, crossing her arms. Celica pauses in the threshold, blowing out an exasperated sigh.  
  
“...You don’t care about me,” Faye murmurs.  
  
“That’s not true, Faye.”  
  
“You’ll welcome me into your bed, as long as nobody sees me around the castle…”  
  
“Faye…”  
  
“You never have time for me! You’re just _using_ me--”  
  
“ _Faye!_ ” Celica snaps, and all the candles in the room blaze twice as bright.  
  
Faye flinches and hangs her head, knowing immediately that she’s gone too far. Her accusations aren’t true, not entirely, but they’re true enough to sting. King Alm is about as interested in Celica sexually as he is with running a country; that is to say, not very. And Silque, for all her virtues, is a frustratingly shy, gentle lover. Faye can’t bear to ask more of her after Silque’s already given her so much.  
  
So, yes. Celica _is_ using Faye, and Faye _is_ using her-- but they could be so much more.  
  
Faye knows this fight is pointless, and Celica knows that Faye’s heart isn’t really in it. But they still have this argument, time and again, like clockwork.  
  
Habit, they suppose.  
  
Celica takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long, shuddering sigh. The candles around her flare in sympathy, shining brilliant and blinding and then slowly dimming to their previous, mundane brightness. It’s times like this that Celica’s elemental affinity for fire shines through. Times like these, Faye remembers that the Queen of Zofia is also a master fire mage, and could immolate her for her insolence if she so chose.  
  
Celica, like a flame, burns hot and bright before vanishing too soon, and that’s just as true for her temper as it is for her in her bedchambers.  
  
Celica sits on the edge of her bed, a tentative hand laid out for Faye to take. Faye does her one better, and scoots over until she’s nestled in the crook of Celica’s shoulder, still so very warm despite the blanket between them.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Faye murmurs, gently, into Celica’s throat.  
  
“We don’t have to talk in circles like this all the time,” Celica chides. “Just be honest with me, Faye. What do you want from me?”  
  
“You,” Faye says, immediately, and the truth of it burns in her chest. “All of you.”  
  
Celica heaves a sigh. “...I’m the Queen of Zofia, Faye. ‘All of me’ isn’t mine to give.”  
  
“More of you, then,” Faye says. She gestures vaguely with her hand. “More than… whatever it is we are, now.”  
  
Celica nods, pursing her lips in thought. The lights and sounds of the harvest festival blaze a fiery orange trail across the Zofian capital and in through the windows, filling Celica’s bedchamber with the joyous sounds of revelry and mirth.  
  
Celica gasps as a plan takes shape in her head. She curls an arm around Faye’s shoulder and squeezes.  
  
“Wait for me downstairs,” Celica grins into Faye’s ear. “I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
Celica pats her on the cheek, before marching off down the corridor. Faye gets dressed, waits a moment so her emerging from Celica’s bedchambers wouldn’t be _too_ conspicuous, and slips out through the castle, clinging to the long shadows cast by wall sconces and chandeliers, high above.  
  
She emerges into a wall of noise. In the courtyard of Zofia Castle, the yearly harvest festival is in full swing. The music, the laughter, the chattering crowds and the roaring festival bonfire all gather together into a sonic assault that nearly bowls Faye off her feet the moment she steps outside. She cringes, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders and trying to find an out-of-the-way corner where it’s not quite so deafening.  
  
No wonder Silque had decided to spend a quiet night in, instead. Not that Silque needed much prompting to make herself scarce, whenever Faye and Celica had their, ah, _meetings_ .  
  
Faye lingers on the edge of the crowd, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her dress to stay warm, quietly feeling foolish just lurking on the sidelines while her fellow countrymen were shrieking in delight and apparently having the time of their lives. She stays there just long enough for that nightly melancholy to start creeping in-- only for it to scatter at the sound of Celica, calling her name and bursting through the crowd.  
  
Celica takes Faye’s hand with a squeeze that warms her to her core despite the brisk autumn chill. A man dutifully follows in her shadow, the captain of the Queensguard, the sword and looping crest of armor at his back no less conspicuous than Celica’s own getup-- a pure white gown under a stark crimson cloak. Despite everything, Faye feels laughter bubbling up in her chest and twitching her lips into a smile.  
  
“Celica,” Faye chides, her free hand clapped over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “What are you wearing.”  
  
“My disguise!” Celica chirps, seeming shockingly proud of herself. She twirls in place, the gold embroidery on the edge of her cloak shimmering in the firelight. “See? Normal girl!”  
  
“Yes, you’re _certainly_ keeping a low profile,” Faye rolls her eyes. “What did you do? I thought you had a meeting full of stuffy nobles to attend.”  
  
“I snuck out!” Celica beams.  
  
_‘Snuck out’_ , Saber mouths dryly over her shoulder, air quotes and all.  
  
Celica makes a show of tucking her hair into her hood as part of her ‘disguise’. A pointless exercise, Faye thinks. In her eyes, Celica is objectively beautiful, and nothing, least of all a mere hood, could ever hide that. But Celica’s little adventure beyond the stifling castle walls has her grinning with unabashed, girlish glee, and Faye can’t help but play along.  
  
Celica doesn’t primly offer Faye her arm to cling to like a royal courtier. She takes Faye’s hand and _runs_ , pulling her down a line of vendors, revelers, and carnival games. The brisk autumnal breeze ruffles their hair and tugs at their cloaks. Their breath fogs in the air-- but they’re warm, so warm, blazing like the bonfire in the heart of the castle courtyard.  
  
Faye spends an evening discovering that festivals, at their core, are really an elaborate excuse to eat. Celica takes her on a culinary tour of Zofia at the height of harvest season, sipping mugs of hot apple cider, savoring freshly-baked meat pies wisping steam into the evening air, and every possible combination of “pumpkin” and “pastry”.  
  
Faye tries them all, her fingers twining with Celica’s an instant before Celica makes a beeline for the next vendor to catch her eye. Celica beams at her, tugs at her arm with such light in her eyes and youthful excitement in her voice that it makes Faye’s heart ache.  
  
‘Disguise’ or not, Celica seems different. Brighter. More open. She wasn’t quite a ‘normal’ girl-- Celica would always be extraordinary-- but she was truer, freer, standing taller without the weight of a crown. This isn’t the poised, regal Queen Anthiese. This is Celica, her Celica, her smile flashing in the firelight, young, bright, and blazing with warmth.  
  
They dart into a little alcove behind a stall selling ribbons, their impish smiles shining like stars. Celica reaches out to playfully swat some crumbs from Faye’s cheek, but Faye snatches her hand in hers, turning and pressing a kiss to Celica’s palm.  
  
Faye can feel the little tremor that flits up Celica’s arm. Their eyes meet, glinting in the firelight. Faye belatedly realizes that, tucked away in their little alcove, she finally doesn’t see Saber lurking in her peripheral vision. It’s just her, and Celica, and an inch of indecision.  
  
The inch vanishes in an instant, and their lips crash together, Faye all-but-moaning into Celica’s mouth. She guides Celica’s hand up until Celica’s clutching a fistful of her hair, Faye locking her arms around Celica’s waist. They gasp as their chests press together, then again as Faye stumbles back and they’re falling, falling, tumbling through the grass. There’s frost on the ground, and their breath steams in the air, but every touch _burns_ , searing, scorching hot.  
  
Faye darts forward and pulls Celica into another frenzied kiss. She yanks back Celica’s hood and curls her fingers in Celica’s hair, glimmering auburn, so like a flame.  
  
In the distance, the harvest festival bonfire blazes away, casting them both in its golden glow. Faye takes Celica’s face in her hands and kisses her, deeply, fiercely, desperately, tangling herself in Celica’s limbs and losing herself to the frenetic heat.  
  
Faye raises Celica’s arms above her head and pins her down, as if she could pin down a shadow, or tame a bonfire. Faye holds Celica close and sears her into her skin.  
  
This is the Celica she wants to remember; the flame in her hands, writhing beneath her, dancing along her skin and filling her heart with light. Not the Celica of the morning after, when the fire’s gone out. Not the Celica that’s smoke between her fingers, and ash on her tongue.  
  
~*~  
  
_III. Red + Blue_  
  
“Well, it isn’t much,” Silque smiles, “but it’s home.”  
  
Silque’s modesty becomes a woman of the cloth, but Celica isn’t having it, gazing up at the cozy little two-story cottage with open-mouthed awe. Celica whistles, impressed.  
  
“Mother Mila, just look at this place,” Celica breathes. “Mila provides.”  
  
Silque chuckles. “No, I’m pretty sure that was just you…”  
  
Celica laughs. Silque takes her hand, and ushers her inside.  
  
They’re greeted by a desk, flanked by a pair of huge wooden shelves, just waiting to be stocked. Running behind the desk is a little hall that leads to a modest kitchen and dining room, blocked off by a curtain. A doorway further in leads to what will become an examination room; and to the right, a quartet of beds line the wall opposite an already-crackling hearth. Or, rather, a quartet of wooden bedframes, which Silque had spent the day hammering together by hand.  
  
“It still needs some work,” Silque admits, sheepish, mistaking Celica’s stunned quiet for a lackluster impression. “We still need a few chairs, a few curtains up for privacy… and, well, the beds aren’t finished yet, obviously. But I’ve already put an order in for a nice set of glassware-- I’ll need quite a few bottles and jars. And Faye’s still out in the woods, picking our first batch of herbs. I want our apothecary to be fully stocked by the time I start admitting patients. Oh, and there’s this, too.”  
  
Silque pulls a little wooden board out from behind the counter, suspended from a little length of rope.  
  
“I was just putting the finishing touches on this when you arrived,” Silque smiles, pushing the board into Celica’s hands.  
  
Celica holds it up to the fading sunlight drifting in through the windows. It’s a double-sided, hand-carved wooden sign: “The Doctor Is In”. Celica’s proud, beaming grin just about splits her face in half. Wordless affection bubbles up in her chest and bursts out through her limbs, tossing the sign onto the counter and throwing herself into Silque’s arms. Silque grunts and tries her best not to fall over, her arms closing around Celica’s waist with a warm, welcome fondness.  
  
“This is amazing, Silque,” Celica coos. “I’m so happy for you two.”  
  
“We couldn’t have done it without you, Celica,” Silque grins.  
  
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! This clinic is your baby. You and Faye made this happen!”  
  
“Oh, yes? And I’m sure the priority construction project and generous royal stipend had nothing to do with it?”  
  
Celica laughs, leaning forward and bumping her nose against Silque’s. She takes her by the shoulders and gives her an affectionate squeeze.  
  
“Come on,” Celica says. “At least let me get you a drink.”  
  
Unlike Faye, who’d gained a taste for ale after a lifetime out in the country, Silque and Celica’s drink of choice is wine. Tonight, though, Celica doesn’t think it's entirely appropriate to pop open a bottle with Silque, given their… circumstances, so they make do with tea. Although, Celica’s heart does briefly catch in her throat when she sees their dining table is still set for three.  
  
The evening ambles on at a languid pace, Silque and Celica chatting about the goings-on at Zofia Castle, just a few hours’ travel down the mountain, wondering about their friends back on Novis, wondering what made Silque decide to end her pilgrimage and finally put down roots.  
  
One might not think there would be so friendly a night between two women who were, essentially, a wife and a mistress. But Silque and Celica had known each other for years, and had far more in common than just Faye.  
  
When it comes to Faye, though… that gives Celica pause.  
  
After tea, Silque had led Celica upstairs to show off their bedroom. Their bed was set flush with the chimney, so even in the winter, so long as the hearth stayed lit, they’d be perfectly warm. And, being right above the patient room, one need only shout, or poke the ceiling with a walking stick, for Silque to come down and answer any distress.  
  
Celica lingers by the window, watching the village beyond. Lamps are going out, the village settling into sleep. What little lamplight remains mingles with the moonless night, casting the velvet darkness a soft, warm violet. It's starting to snow, gentle flurries drifting lazily down.  
  
“Won’t you join me?” Silque calls, behind her.  
  
Celica turns, catching a glimpse of Silque in her powder-blue nightgown, and immediately blushes a shade closer to her hair. Silque raises a dubious eyebrow.  
  
“...Will you pray with me, Sister?” Silque clarifies dryly.  
  
“R-Right…” Celica laughs, sheepish.  
  
Silque sets the little carving of Mila on the windowsill, framed by a violet sky and drifting snow. Celica kneels beside her, and they offer Mila their gratitude. For life. For love. For warmth in winter.  
  
Neither of them are quite sure what it means to pray, anymore, in this era without the gods. But it’s a habit they cling to, regardless, comforting in its familiarity.  
  
“Come here,” Silque says gently, when Celica finds herself lingering by the window, watching the snow drifting down. Celica blinks at her.  
  
“...I don’t want to intrude,” she says, wary.  
  
“You’re a dear friend, Celica,” Silque insists. “There’s a place for you here. With us.”  
  
Celica smirks. “Like, here, in your lives, or here in your bed?”  
  
Silque rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re certainly not sleeping on the _floor_ . Come here.”  
  
Celica hesitates for just a moment, before Silque gives her the dry, I-won’t-say-it-again look she’s honed from years of badgering Boey, Mae, and Genny to finish their chores. Celica slips under the covers, wary of overstepping her bounds. Those worries promptly vanish when Silque tucks the blanket over Celica’s shoulders, and then doesn’t pull away.  
  
She’s so warm. A hearth, not a bonfire. Steady, gentle, sure to last the night. Celica finds herself sighing into Silque’s embrace, content.  
  
“I do hope Faye gets back soon,” Silque murmurs, idly tracing her fingertips down Celica’s arm. “I wouldn’t want her to get caught in the snow.”  
  
Celica nods, but says nothing. She pulls Silque closer, gently laying her head on Silque’s chest.  
  
“Silque,” Celica begins, distant. “Are you… alright with this?”  
  
“With what?”  
  
“Our… arrangement.”  
  
“It wouldn’t be an arrangement if I wasn’t,” Silque shrugs.  
  
“Oh.” It’s a practical answer, and so very Silque. Celica worries her lip with her teeth. “I just worry, sometimes. That it bothers you.”  
  
“Should it?” Silque asks lightly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Mother Mila herself took many lovers.”  
  
“So did my father,” Celica adds dryly.  
  
“That’s not the same, and you know it,” Silque chides. “Mother Mila took lovers. King Lima took trophies. I know Faye means more to you than that. I trust you.”  
  
Celica smiles, leaning into Silque and giving her a squeeze.  
  
“You’re sure?” Celica wonders.  
  
“I am,” Silque says. “Having you in our lives doesn’t mean there’s less love for me. There’s just more for Faye. And, honestly, that girl deserves all the love she can get.”  
  
“She really does,” Celica murmurs.  
  
“Frankly, I don’t think she can get _enough_ ,” Silque adds, dryly. “You two are _insatiable_ .”  
  
Celica laughs, scandalized, and gives her a playful shove. Silque smiles at her with a fondness fostered over years, reaching up and trailing her fingers through Celica’s hair. She pulls Celica close, and gives her the benediction she’s given her fellow priory kids ever since they were young, pressing her lips to her scalp, her forehead, and then her nose, in turn. Or it would have been her nose, if Celica hadn’t looked up at the last moment and stolen a soft, chaste kiss.  
  
Silque laughs. “...That’s… not how that blessing goes…”  
  
Celica giggles, warm. “I’m sorry, did I misread?”  
  
Silque rolls her eyes, leaning in and rubbing their noses together. They settle in together in a warm, comfortable quiet, snow slowly gathering on the windowsill.  
  
“...You _will_ come and visit, won’t you?” Silque murmurs, her eyes closed.  
  
“Of course,” Celica promises. “Every seven-day, if I can. It’ll be our little day of rest.”  
  
“I don’t know how _restful_ it’ll be, once you and Faye get going…”  
  
Celica rolls her eyes. “...hush…”  
  
They settle in together, trading little touches, little murmurs of affection.  
  
This, Celica thinks. This is something to treasure.  
  
Faye emerges from the violet night, shaking snow from her cloak, bearing a pack full of fresh-cut herbs. There’s a cup of strong cinnamon tea waiting for her on the counter, still hot after all this time thanks to a fire charm Celica left scribed on the porcelain. Faye’s bedclothes are waiting for her, in a neatly folded pile. When she unfurls her nightgown, a note flutters onto the floorboards-- a handwritten ‘I love you’ in Silque’s neat, tidy hand.  
  
~*~  
  
_IV. White_  
  
Faye, Silque, and Celica are all early risers. Faye, from getting up at sunrise to check the snares she’d set in Fleecer’s Forest; Silque, and Celica, from an early start to priory chores. So when the sun rises over their little nameless village in the mountains outside the Zofian capital, streaming in through the windows of their cottage, they’re already awake. But none of them want to get up.  
  
Why would they? They’re tangled up in one another, and none of them are eager to trade a warm bed for cold floorboards.  
  
White shines through the windows. The sunlight off the snow is downright blinding.  
  
In the morning light, Faye takes a moment to look, really look, at the women nestled in her arms. Silque, serene, effortlessly poised. Celica, her hair an unkempt crimson mane splayed across her shoulders.  
  
Silque’s idly tracing patterns into Faye’s skin with a lazy fingernail, looking up and meeting Faye’s honeyed eyes.  
  
“What?” Silque asks, raising an eyebrow, when she catches Faye staring.  
  
“Nothing,” Faye smiles. “I just love you.”  
  
“That’s not nothing,” Silque smiles.  
  
Faye pulls her into a slow, sleepy, lingering kiss, carding her fingers through Silque’s soft, downy hair. They part with a sigh, pressing their foreheads together. Silque reaches up, tracing a fingernail in curlicues along Faye’s cheek, lingering by her lips.  
  
“I love you,” Faye whispers.  
  
“I love you more,” Silque teases. She pecks Faye on the nose.  
  
“You two are _adorable_ ,” Celica muses drowsily, rather spoiling the mood.  
  
Silque snorts. Faye rolls her eyes, and tangles her fingers in Celica’s mane.  
  
“Come here,” Faye half-growls, and Celica obliges, meeting her lips in a hungry kiss, hot and fierce and over too soon. Celica strokes Faye’s cheek, Faye leaning into the touch and suckling on the pad of her thumb. Celica purrs, biting her lip.  
  
She turns, seeing the question in Silque’s eyes.  
  
Their lips meet in a soft, chaste kiss. It’s not quite a bonfire. But it’s undeniably warm.  
  
They laugh as they part, coming to rest against Faye’s chest. Faye holds them close, trailing her fingers through their hair, studying them both in the brilliant sunlight streaming in the window.  
  
A few years ago, lonely little Faye from Ram Village would never have guessed she would one day have the hearts of both a cleric and a queen.  
  
So alike, yet so different. Celica, a bonfire that blazes hot and bright but only in her season; Silque, a hearth that keeps her warm, year-round, a love that blooms evergreen.  
  
“I love you,” Faye says, and it seems like so lacking a phrase, so incapable of expressing the light and warmth that fills her heart full to bursting. But Silque and Celica meet her eyes-- frost blue, striking crimson, and wheat gold-- and Faye knows they understand.  
  
Faye holds her lovers close, and pulls the sheets up to their necks. Silque still has work to do before the clinic can open, and Celica has business to attend to back at the castle. Faye herself should be out in the woods, checking snares, catching something for their dinner. Outside, the world is waiting, with its winter chill.  
  
Faye’s happy to keep the world waiting just a little bit longer.  
  
Soon, it will be spring.  
  
~*~


End file.
